


power over me

by ceraunos



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mild Painplay, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, not really but there is a magical influence at the start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceraunos/pseuds/ceraunos
Summary: Witchers don't feel pain, but it doesn't mean they don't feelsomethingThe realisation shudders through Jaskier’s blood like a static shock, furious arousal pooling low in his stomach.‘Hm,’ Geralt hums, agreeing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 725





	power over me

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from dermot kennedy's album, which I listened to about 15 times while writing this. 
> 
> Thank you to getyourownfuckingbubblewrap on tumblr for beta-ing the first half of this.

The smell of burning blood and something deeper, a pungent earthy rust of death, clouds through the room and catches in the back of Jaskier’s nose. He swallows and tries to cough without gagging. The fire, which is currently eating at the fabric of his second favourite shirt, spits onto the hearth and the smell gets, impossibly, worse.

Somewhere in one of their bags is a bundle of herbs which would probably clean the air at least enough to stop it lining the inside of his lungs with every breath, except the bags are somewhere far inside the wood, covered in the same sticky, thick goop that’s coating every inch of his skin. He thinks the herbs might well have hallucinogenic effects for anyone that isn’t a Witcher too, but that’s a concession he would be more than willing to take at this point.

‘Stay  _ still _ ,’ Geralt mutters through his teeth, smoothing a thin cloth over Jaskier’s back. It catches on the last of the hardening tar like substance and pulls over an old scab. He hisses as he feels the skin reopen.

‘Careful, if you don’t mind. Some of us like to avoid collecting scars,’ he says, and doesn’t think about how he can feel the curve of Geralt’s palm through the cloth.

‘Should have been more careful about falling in the fucking blood bog.’

‘Alright, alright. Just – mind where you’re scraping.’

Geralt pauses, a finger pressing against the cut and Jaskier feels it like a sharp shudder down his spine, the unexpected contact. He blinks, and in the momentary darkness he pictures the drop of his blood trapped against Geralt’s finger and feels as if the air in the room has suddenly vanished; the awful smell is long forgotten.

‘It’ll stop,’ Geralt murmurs and lets go. Jaskier has to focus hard to not sway back into him, chasing the touch. He’s never put much belief in the old saying that Witchers don’t have emotions, but he wonders how obtuse Geralt must be to not have noticed how distracting he is sometimes. Jaskier breaths in shallowly through his mouth and hopes his voice holds steady.

‘Anyway, Mr I-have-impossible-vision-and-perfect-balance I seem to recall if Roach hadn’t pulled you –’

‘Done,’ Geralt says before Jaskier can finish his sentence and Jaskier realises he hadn’t even felt the last of the muck being peeled off him.

‘Oh. Thanks.’

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just starts rooting through the bundle of things he’d bargained – or rather intimidated – the inn keeper into giving them when they arrived.

‘Here,’ he grunts, and throws a small vial across the room at Jaskier, who only just catches it before it smashes on the floor.

‘What? Why do I – _oh_. Oh no, Geralt. Geralt. Why am I burning? What is this? It’s like – like, oh gods what –’

‘A mild toxin from the creature dead in the bog. Use the salve, you’ll be fine.’

‘Dead in the – you know, sometimes I could I hate you,’ Jaskier grumbles, and wishes there was enough hot water to scald his entire skin off at that comment. The salve works, though, and by the time he’s coaxed the last of it out of the bottle the burning, which was really more of an unrepentant itching, has cooled to a vague tickle that’s quickly disappearing.

It’s only once he’s dug through the pile of assorted borrowed clothes on the floor and dressed in a shirt several sizes too large, that Jaskier realises Geralt had thrown him the vial  _ before  _ the burning had started.

‘Geralt. How did you – Geralt.’

Geralt finally looks up from where he’s burning his sword in the fire. Jaskier has learnt not to question things like this by now.

‘Hm?’

‘You’ve got bog in your hair.’

‘Hm.’

‘How did you know it would burn me?’

Geralt doesn’t answer, but he does glance at Jaskier and puts his sword down.

‘Let me?’ Jaskier says and doesn’t wait for an answer before picking at a clump of black mud caked in Geralt’s ponytail.

‘Hm,’ Geralt sighs warningly, with the familiar inflection that suggests he isn’t entirely on board with Jaskier’s proposal. Jaskier keeps at the dirt anyway, nails dragging it through his hair until it starts to flake out. There’s enough salve on his fingers that he can’t feel the sting of it anymore, but that doesn’t mean it comes out easily and with every knot he removes he seems to uncover yet more of the dirt.

There’s a long silence as Jaskier works, Geralt tense and solid beneath his touch; if he were composing this moment he’d say it were like a sentenced man awaiting the morning. It’s only when Jaskier uses the cloth to wet the dirt, sponging water over his hair until both their shirts are damp and water is dripping in a puddle at his feet, that Geralt reacts.

‘Jaskier,’ he almost growls, pulling away from Jaskier’s hands. ‘Stop.’

‘It burns you too, doesn’t it?’ Something heavy and palpable like a low fog fills the small space between them. ‘I used the last of the salve. You should have said.’

‘It doesn’t burn.’

‘Oh, really? You just knew that the mystery bog creature with no name would naturally have this affect, then?’

‘Yes.’

In the moment that follows Jaskier vaguely considers that he might be wrong; it is a Witcher’s job to know these things after all. But they hadn’t even seen the creature until it was half sunk and Geralt was pulling Jaskier out of the bog, and at that point there had been more pressing things to think about.

It  _ is _ possible, though, that Geralt had known without it affecting him too, that he’d asked for the salve only because he knew Jaskier would need it. Except Jaskier doesn’t want to think about what that means, though; it’s too much of a state altering concept for right now, not when Geralt is still staring at him and Jaskier suddenly realises he doesn’t know what else to say.

‘It doesn’t burn,’ Geralt says again, when Jaskier doesn’t argue.

It’s too much of a state altering concept, except perhaps the state is altering anyway.

‘Let me anyway?’

Even though he barely whispers it, the words seem to echo loud between them. Jaskier steps around until he can see Geralt’s eyes, the way they flicker somewhere over his shoulder.

‘It’s fine. You don’t need –’ Geralt starts, but their fingers meet in his hair, twisting at the knot of leather there, unthreading the tie until loose hair falls wild and free around Geralt’s face.

Jaskier winds his fingers through the tangles at the roots and tries to think of nothing but the task at hand. His finger catches at a knot, tugging just a little harder than he’d meant, though, and the sharp inhale Geralt gives in response fills Jaskier’s head like a rush of morning air.

‘Sorry,’ he says, but Geralt doesn’t even look up. There’s a faint colour high on his cheekbones though, which might just be the fire, and Jaskier doesn’t miss how his nails are digging into the palm of his hand just enough to be deliberate. Part of being a poet, he muses, is that you know now to  _ notice  _ things.

He pulls against the knot again experimentally. This time the way Geralt’s neck tips forward just a little towards Jaskier’s chest is unmistakable. He doesn’t push, just keeps at the dirt, occasionally using the cloth to rinse out the loose mud and listens to the way Geralt’s breathing finally starts to even out again.

Even under the blanket of thick potential still filling the room, it feels like time falls away and after a while Jaskier finds himself humming gently under his breath, a nonsense tune full of low rises and space enough for Geralt to tell him to stop. He doesn’t tell him to stop, though, and Jaskier has long finished removing the dirt before Geralt finally looks up.

For a moment Jaskier expects him to pull away, to stand, to do anything to end whatever they’ve started, except he just watches, staring with wide burning eyes and Jaskier lets his hands run again through his hair, fingernails raking along his scalp with just a little more pressure than necessary and waits.

‘I –’ Geralt starts, and then stops. Jaskier’s hand finds the base of Geralt’s neck, thumb resting behind his ear, and loops his fingers around the hair there and pulls. Geralt moans, so breathlessly quiet that if he hadn’t already been watching his lips Jaskier might have missed it. It’s enough that Geralt goes very, very still though.

‘Geralt? Is this…’

Jaskier doesn’t get a response, but Geralt’s fingers find his own and trace the outline of his knuckles, eyes still watching him carefully.

‘It doesn’t burn,’ he starts, and Jaskier wonders why they’re suddenly having this conversation again, ‘but I can  _ feel  _ it.’

_ Oh _ , Jaskier gasps, understanding. Witchers don’t feel pain like humans; but it doesn’t mean they don’t feel  _ something. _ The realisation shudders through Jaskier’s blood like a static shock, furious arousal pooling low in his stomach.

‘Hm,’ Geralt hums, agreeing. Jaskier suddenly feels very much more aware of how close they are, him standing between Geralt’s knees, leaning over him still. He glances down and sees the hard, unmistakable press of arousal there.

‘Oh.’

‘Hm.’ Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier lets out a sudden swooping laugh, a rush of endorphins and anticipation.

‘Would you like, would you like me to do something about that?’

‘Fuck,’ Geralt moans, and Jaskier takes that as a yes, tips Geralt’s jaw up towards him and kisses him.

It’s hardly cautious, they’re too far into this now to start worrying about that, and Jaskier has barely tasted Geralt’s lips before Geralt’s tongue is pressing against his, licking into him and Jaskier is biting down on Geralt’s lip enough to draw another impatient moan from him.

‘Please,’ Geralt groans into Jaskier’s mouth and it’s enough to make Jaskier’s knees give out. He falls forward until he’s perched on Geralt’s lap, tightening his hand still in Geralt’s hair unintentionally as the angle between them shifts. This time he’s close enough that he feels it as the spike of arousal as if floods through Geralt as if it were his own. He does it again, and again, and again, until Geralt is gasping for breath, his moans wrecked raw already.

‘Bed,’ Jaskier pants, already feeling almost as undone as Geralt looks. Geralt hums in agreement, fumbling with the buttons on Jaskier’s trousers as they stumble backwards, hitting the thin mattress with a force Jaskier barely feels against the insistence of Geralt’s mouth on his.

‘Fuck,’ Jaskier gasps as Geralt’s hand finds his cock, wrapping around it and stroking, once, twice. He sinks into the sensation of it for a second, the heady wash of pure arousal singing through him.

‘Ah, ah, wait,’ he finally manages to gasp, although he doesn’t stop himself as he bucks up into Geralt’s touch. Geralt stills, though, confusion written across his features, eyes searching Jaskier’s for understanding. Jaskier gives it to him in the form of a hand pressing against his cock still trapped in his trousers.

‘Don’t worry,’ he murmurs, pausing to fiddle with the ties of Geralt’s trousers, ‘but I’m not going to last otherwise, and you’ve done such a good job, love.’

He feels the way Geralt freezes, tenses, at the word and for a second curses his free tongue, except it’s all forgotten the moment he puts his mouth around Geralt and hums. Geralt is so hard, so ready and Jaskier has heard rumours of Witcher stamina but right now there’s a bead of pre-come salty against his tongue and none of them seems to apply with the way Geralt’s hips fight against the hand steadying them.

The position is uncomfortable, and Jaskier and feel the strain of it in his forearm, but his other hand is still wrapped in the base of Geralt’s hair and as he sinks down, taking the length of Geralt right to the back of his throat, he tightens his grip and tugs once again. Geralt bucks, crying out with something that starts as a gasp and ends as a low, desperate moan, as Jaskier swallows around him, trying to breath steadily through his nose as he fights the instinct to pull away.

When Geralt traces a finger along the line of Jaskier’s cheek, pressing against where his own cock is, Jaskier nearly comes right there on the spot it’s so much. Instead, he finally untangles his hand – letting the half whine Geralt gives at it run through him like hot wine – and wraps it around the base of Geralt’s cock, stroking where he can’t quite reach with his mouth. Geralt’s head drops onto his shoulder, sighing deeply into him before biting down, teeth pricking at the skin not dissimilar to the toxin except this time Geralt mouths at the mark and Jaskier feels his own moan as it vibrates around Geralt’s cock in the way Geralt bits down a second time.

He can feel Geralt’s release building, the tightness of his stomach, the way his hand scrabbles at Jaskier’s back, clawing at him as he tries to steady himself. Jaskier flicks his tongue over the tip of his cock at the same time he twists with his hand, tangling with the unexpectedly dark hair at Geralt’s base.

‘Jask – Jaskier,’ Geralt urges warningly, but Jaskier only flicks his tongue over him again, sucking just enough for Geralt to shout and come, bucking under Jaskier’s touch as he swallows him down.

When Jaskier looks up, grinning even as he rubs a slight ache out of his jaw, Geralt doesn’t have his eyes closed as Jaskier would expect, but is looking at him with something that – if he were inclined to romance, which he is – Jaskier would describe as wonder. In an instant Jaskier is reminded of just how unbelievably, distractingly hard he still is.

‘Fuck,’ Geralt groans, voice hoarse, ‘That was – I didn’t mean to – I was going to…’

Jaskier wonders if he should be worried, but it isn’t exactly  _ regret  _ he can hear in Geralt’s voice, and the fact that Geralt is still holding tightly onto his shoulder, nails digging in like he isn’t ready to let go just yet, is reassuring too.

‘You were going to...?’ He asks, leaning in so his erection is pressing hard against the line of Geralt’s thigh. Geralt pauses, jaw working and Jaskier can read the uncertainty clouding over him like the drawing in before a storm. Jaskier kisses a line along Geralt’s ribs, stopping to trace over scars and years old marks as if they were words inked onto a manuscript not yet translated, and waits for him to relax.

Geralt swallows and says, ‘I was planning on fucking you.’

The surprise of it doesn’t stop Jaskier’s cock jerking, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through him.

‘We could,’ he muses after a moment, moving so he’s trailing kisses down Geralt’s side, fingers finding marks even lower until he’s wandering around the base of Geralt’s spine with light, scratching touches, ‘always do… something else.’

He shifts again biting back the moan as his cock slips between Geralt’s thighs, and pressing lower with his finger, until his meaning is unmistakable.

‘Hm,’ Geralt says, but it sounds like nothing Jaskier has ever heard from him before, wrecked and drawn out with need. When Jaskier flips them over and presses a kiss to where his finger was moments ago, Geralt shudders under him.

‘Yes,’ he hisses, drawing the sound out as Jaskier tentatively draws a loose hand over his cock, mindful of not overstimulating Geralt, although from the way he’s half hard again already that’s hardly a problem.

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier hums into his ear, drawing long, slow, circles lower and lower on Geralt’s back. ‘Fuck you’re so good, so beautiful, like a dream.’

Geralt doesn’t say anything, as silent in sex as in everything else, but spreads his legs wonderfully and Jaskier takes the invite willingly; draws over the inside of Geralt’s thighs with open palms brushing along hot, flushed skin. Only when Geralt is almost shaking with anticipation under him does he finally press a a finger against the rim of his hole, languishing in the low moan Geralt gives in response.

‘Shit, do we have any oil?’ Jaskier suddenly realises that this might be the furthest they’re going to get unless Geralt has been unexpectedly prepared. ‘Sorry, should have thought earlier –’ he starts, but Geralt is already reaching under the bed. There’s a crash and then Geralt leans back triumphant, a half-used bottle of oil in hand.

‘Cheap inns, there’s always some left somewhere,’ he says, by way of explanation, and Jaskier tries not to think about what that implies about the condition of the bed.

Geralt twists to steal a kiss, deep and wanting, and any thought of whoever last used the oil is banished entirely as Jaskier melts into it. Somewhere along the way they end up with Geralt’s leg hooked over Jaskier’s and the oil spilling slowly onto the sheets as Jaskier traces around Geralt’s hole, dipping just below the edge and Geralt presses down on his finger, urging him on.

‘Fuck, Jaskier, please.’

‘So good, so hot, so tight, fuck, I’ve wanted you like this for so long.’

Geralt moans and Jaskier is sure anyone outside on the street must have heard it; it’s strangely possessive in a way he didn’t know he was, the way he hopes they have.

By the time Jaskier is in to his second knuckle Geralt is already begging for more, writhing under him to draw him deeper.

‘I need more, I can take it, please, not enough, I need –’ Jaskier never would have expected Geralt to talk so much but now that he’s started it’s like he can’t stop his mouth, pleading desperately, lost in the sensation of Jaskier’s finger crooking inside him. Jaskier obliges and pulls out, stopping Geralt’s protest at the loss by letting two fingers sink back into him almost immediately, turning plea to breathless cry.

By the third finger Geralt is gasping in time to the shallow thrusts Jaskier gives, his hand finding Jaskier’s cock and stroking with desperate dedication, oil slick between their skin. He’d been so focused on Geralt’s pleasure, on dragging out needing cry after cry, that Jaskier realises he’s flagged slightly, but just the feel of Geralt’s hand on him is enough to bring him back to aching hardness.

‘In me, now, I’m ready,’ Geralt demands and Jaskier couldn’t refuse if he wanted to.

Jaskier is aware he’s babbling as he pushes in, slowly letting the heat and closeness of it engulf him, except he has no idea what the words spilling out like a litany are; he only knows that, over the rush of blood in his ears, he can hear Geralt echoing them. Geralt’s eyes flutter closed as he bottoms out, pausing a moment as he watches Geralt’s chest heave, dragging in air through parted lips.

Then Geralt nods, and Jaskier moves; slow, shallow thrusts as he adjusts, trying to hold on to the arousal already building like thunder at the edge of him.

‘More,’ Geralt moans, twisting his hips to meet Jaskier’s thrusts.

‘Open your eyes, I want to see.’

‘Move, need more.’

‘Look at me, love, need you to see.’

As if with a tremendous effort Geralt looks up, eyes wide open and Jaskier gasps. They’re dark, pupils blown huge, and the gold seems to swim like deep amber – although that might be his poetic imagination getting lost in them. Geralt, though, seems struck and Jaskier wonders what he must be seeing, whether he’s anything like the reflection of Geralt, sweaty and flushed looking like sex personified.

Then he glances down and knows Geralt’s eyes follow by the way they slam into each other, driven on by the sight of the lines of their bodies blurring into each other, moving almost as one animal. Jaskier thrusts again, tipping his hips and he knows he’s found the spot he was looking for when Geralt howls, drawing his knees up until Jaskier is trapped there and has no option but to thrust back in, hitting the same spot over and over.

With shaking fingers, Geralt guides the hand Jaskier isn’t using to balance them to his hair, and Jaskier knows exactly what he wants before he asks. Geralt looks ruined, sweat pooling at his brow as he gasps at the touch, the feel of Jaskier’s fingers smoothing over his scalp. He’s so far gone, so desperate for release he’s hardly coordinated enough to keep his hand moving, slipping from Geralt’s hair to grasp at his shoulder, steadying himself; except he must still have hair tangled around his fingers because Geralt tips his head back, pulling against it and cries out as Jaskier hits that same spot for a final time and he comes between them, warm and wet on Jaskier’s stomach.

Jaskier chases the arousal that sits frantic and wanting at the tip of his being, blindly thrusting once, twice more as Geralt pulls him close and kisses him exhaustedly, neither of them having enough awareness to do more than keep their lips against each other, letting gasps roll between them as Jaskier finally comes, thunder crashing over him for so long he thinks he might pass out.

When he eventually comes back to himself, Geralt is holding him, breath warm in his ear as he mutters over and over again, ‘Jaskier.’

‘Fuck,’ Jaskier gasps in an exhausted laugh and feels the warm of it when Geralt joins in.

‘Fuck,’ he agrees.

‘That was – you’re magnificent, you, the ballads I could write, of course no one would believe me, but that’s hardly the point of them –’

‘Sleep,’ Geralt interrupts with a smile Jaskier might even call fond, and he thinks, perhaps this once he’s included to agree with the Witcher.

‘We should…’ he half-heartedly argues, waving at the mess between them.

‘Later,’ he hears Geralt murmur as his eyes draw closed. He thinks he hears Geralt says something else, too, but it’s lost in the hazy vagueness of almost sleep.

~x~

He wakes to a body against his, warm and close. He’s already been cleaned, and he thinks there’s a hand running gently through his hair.

He blinks against the midday light streaming in through the window.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello,’ Geralt answers as he threads his fingers through Jaskier’s. For once, Jaskier doesn’t think there is anything else that needs to be said, just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm about to start a Witcher fic with some actual plot in, but for now I hope you enjoyed this pure filth instead x
> 
> come and scream with me on tumblr: [ceraunos](https://ceraunos.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (the something else Geralt says is something along the line of 'love you too' but that was far too sentimental to include yikes)


End file.
